Walking Home A Crooked Mile
by BlueEyedDemonLiz
Summary: When Sam is kidnapped by a demon, Dean discovers the hard way that finding his brother is only half the battle. Winchester angst and limpage. Rated for some bad language.
1. Chapter 1

_This is a 2-part fic written especially for Gidgetgal9 and Kokoda2007 for their birthdays - Happy Birthday guys! I could have got you bath stuff or chocs but I thought I'd give you the gift of Winchester angst instead. : D_

_Huge thanks to my awesome beta Olivia Sutton (I played after I got this part back so any and all remaining mistakes are mine, all mine) and a special big hugs thank you to Tammitam and Sendintheclowns for all their help and support - especially during what I now like to call my 'Liz turns psycho' bout of writers' block. I don't know what I'd have done without you, probably broken the keyboard with my face most likely._

_Set directly after 'Sin City' in Season 3, no spoilers for upcoming Season 4. Disclaimer: I don't own anything._

**Walking Home A Crooked Mile – Part One**

Dean drives the Impala along an empty stretch of pitch-black highway and doesn't notice his hands shaking as he grips the wheel. He doesn't notice the empty seat beside him or the bad feeling churning in his gut or the sharp acidic taste of bile at the back of his throat. Except for the fact that he absolutely does notice.

It's so desolate and lonesome out here in the South Dakota Badlands that Dean could almost believe the world had ended; some fire raining down from the heavens Judgment Day apocalypse which had gone and wiped away everyone but him. In a way, for Dean, it's not that far from the truth.

It's not like Sam hasn't been missing before, Dean really should be more used to it by now. He's danced to this tune a few times if the truth be told, but the steps never get any easier. This last week has been especially hard on Dean but he's still managed to embrace his favoured going without sleep and downing fifty million gallons of stale black coffee technique of searching for his brother. He's chain-smoking cigarettes even though he doesn't normally care for them and the burned dry taste on his tongue makes him want to gag.

He doesn't have any real leads to follow. Sam's just gone. There was no farewell letter; no "I can't do this anymore, Dean. I'm leaving." Just an empty space where Sam should be and Dean has been driving ever since.

The only reason Dean has any clue at all about what's happened to his brother is because when Dean woke up to find Sam missing from his bed, Sam's blankets were all rumpled, as though he'd been having one majorly bad nightmare and on Sam's pillow—in the center of the indent where Sam's head had been—was a perfect little pile of sulfur, like some fucked up demon notion of a motel room pillow mint.

Sam had seemed fine the night before, a little whinier than usual perhaps because Dean wouldn't let him watch some yawn-fest nature documentary, not when 'Goodfellas' was showing on CBS. "Jeez Sammy, quit being a little bitch." If Dean had known it would be the last thing he'd say to his brother he'd have thought of something nicer. He might even have endured the two mind-numbing hours of lions humping.

Who's he kidding? If Dean had known anything, he'd have shoved Sam in the Impala and driven out of town so fast it would have looked like the devil was on their tail.

And if the sulfur was anything to go by, the devil probably would have been.

XXX

Dean scrubs a hand down his face. His eyes feel gritty and he badly needs to take a shower. He's so tired he could sleep for a month but with Sam missing, he can't sleep for five minutes. The lack of sleep is starting to wear him down, drive him a little more crazy with each passing second. But searching for Sam is as necessary as breathing right now. The need to find his brother fuels Dean's restlessness, a constant tugging ache which won't dissipate.

Dean is just contemplating when to make his next crappy coffee pit-stop when the Impala suddenly stutters and the engine stalls, forcing the car to come to a rolling stop. Dean's fingers twist the ignition key with rapidly growing frustration but she's not having any of it, the engine is as dead as Elvis. Dean reaches over into the glove box to grab his cell phone when he notices that there's a figure huddled on the ground by the roadside.

A man—a naked man—skin covered with a thick layer of dried-on mud and filth, his hair a greasy messy mop of chestnut brown is crouched cowed in the red-dirt like it's the most normal thing in the world to be doing in the middle of nowhere at some godforsaken cusp of dawn hour. _No way! _Dean's stomach lurches, doing a flip as though he's on a rollercoaster and he's out of the car before he's even got the door fully open. He falls to his knees right in front of the figure.

Dean reaches out both of his hands to touch the man. He lets his fingers gently press into the soft flesh of the man's broad shoulders because he can clearly see now that it is Sam—_Jesus Christ it really is Sam_—and Sam lifts his head, peels his lips back to bare white teeth and growls.

Dean is stunned enough to let go of Sam pretty damn quick and topple backwards onto his behind with all the grace of a drunk at chucking out time. "Sammy?"

Sam's eyes go wide and pause from darting skittishly to study Dean intently before he jerks away, shuffling himself a few inches along the ground. "Sammy? Can you hear me?"

Sam's whole body goes tense; he shoots to his feet and takes off running. Dean's brain barely has time to register what's happened but it doesn't matter because his legs have already started moving.

Sam's long legs are eating up the asphalt highway; his bare feet making a _slap slap_ noise as his hurtling stride settles into a steady rhythm. But his gait is unsteady and he's weaving a sloppy zigzag path along the road which gives Dean the opportunity to make up the gap and grab Sam. Strong arms wrapping in a tight embrace around his brother's thin waist, pulling him down so that Sam falls onto the ground, Dean sprawled across him.

Sam freezes like that. Laid flat out on his back, his chest heaving for air and his glassy eyes locked on Dean, it's quiet except for their matching heavy breathing. But the all too brief peaceful respite is lost when Sam goes wild. Fighting and clawing to get free. They kick up billowing dust clouds as they scrabble in the gravel right there by the road side. Sam ripping at Dean's clothes with his fingernails and teeth, snarling and snapping his jaw like a rabid dog.

Dean is cursing a blue streak as he desperately tries to pin down Sam's flailing arms—all the while, oddly thinking back to a time when he tried to ride a Bucking Bronco at the Kentucky State Fair when he was nine— but Sam is so friggin' gigantic these days that it's more or less impossible for Dean to gain the upper hand in the tussle. In the end, Dean does the only thing he can think of; he pulls back his fist and punches his baby brother square in the face.

Sam's thrashing immediately ceases and his body goes limp beneath Dean's. Dean stays still for a moment—sucking in deep breaths of air which smells of sage brush and biscuity sweet earth—looking at Sam and realizing that now he's found his brother again he doesn't have a clue what he's going to do.

XXX

Once Sam is loaded onto the backseat of the Impala, Dean slides himself into the driver's seat and gives the ignition key an optimistic try. The engine instantly roars to life, resurrected. _Someone is fucking with me._ Dean glances around, giving his surroundings a hasty inspection but when he doesn't see anything apart from the deserted highway twisting through the barren rocky landscape he revs the engine and sets off in search of the nearest motel, hoping to God he can find one before Sam wakes up.

Rather worryingly, getting an unconscious naked man into a motel room without being spotted turns out to be much easier than Dean had expected. Unfortunately, wrestling the same unconscious naked man into some warm dry clothes isn't. Sam's all floppy arms and uncooperative legs. Dean settles for a simple t-shirt, sweat pants and a pair of mismatched socks because most of Sam's clothes are dirty given that laundry duty hasn't been a priority for awhile now.

Dean runs his hands over Sam's pliant limbs and head, fingers trailing through the matted hair efficiently removing bits of leaves and bark. Sam doesn't appear to have any real injuries. There's a smattering of fading bruises which litter the right side of his torso and a shallow cut on one arm which is crusted with dried blood but apart from that Sam simply looks like he's been on the losing side of a mud wrestling match. Dean fetches a bowl of warm water and a washcloth and starts busying himself with trying to wipe the accumulation of grime away from Sam's ashen face.

The damp cloth only touches Sam's cheek for the barest second when Sam's eyes burst open and he's instantly darts off of the bed, cramming himself into the tiny space in-between the bed and wall. "Sammy. It's me, Dean. You're okay. You're safe." The comforting words come easy because Dean means them; he won't let anyone take Sam away from him again. Dean holds out a hand but doesn't try to touch his brother.

Sam flinches anyway and leans in further against the wall.

"God, Sam. How did you escape? What—what the hell happened to you?" Dean drops the cloth back into the bowl with frustration. "Christo." Dean surprises himself as the word trips from his tongue but it gives him the faint glimmer of hope which he so desperately needs when Sam's eyes don't change.

"Here, look, I won't touch you but you need to get cleaned up." He pushes the bowl across the bed towards Sam who eyes it warily. Dean sighs with relief when Sam reaches out to pick up the bowl but instead of washing himself; Sam tips the bowl towards his lips and starts gulping down the water greedily.

"Oookay, not what I had in mind. Guess you were real thirsty, huh?"

Sam's answer is a satisfied smacking of his lips and the empty bowl is discarded, dropped unceremoniously onto the floor.

Dean has an idea; he reaches into his jacket pocket and then leans across the bed, holding out a Baby Ruth like a white flag. Some part of Sam's brain must know that it's something edible because he looks faintly interested but too suspicious of Dean to actually reach out and take it.

"Fine, so you're not hungry but man, I could eat a horse." Dean tears off the wrapper with his teeth and takes a bite, chewing and making loud _Mmmm_ noises as he swallows. He lets himself grin slightly when he sees Sam's hand edging across the bedspread. Dean puts the candy bar down and Sam's fingers instantly close around it. He brings it up to his nose and sniffs. "Dude, I don't have cooties."

Sam doesn't acknowledge his brother, there's not even the barest hint of recognition in his unsettled hazel eyes, only the most raw of emotions; anger, fear, hunger. Sam keeps the candy bar snagged between his long fingers and eats, devouring the whole thing in three huge bites, his eyes not once leaving Dean. His body is still coiled tight, ready to bolt at a moments notice.

Dean doesn't know how to fix Sam, this time bandages and Tylenol aren't going to do shit. What he needs is help and there's only one person still breathing who Dean would trust anywhere near his brother.

XXX

Bobby Singer loves the Winchester brothers. If you asked him yourself he'd flat out deny it, would probably snort out a laugh in your face and call you a "damned idjit" for ever having suggested such a thing. But he does and that is a fact which is as honest as Dean having a preference for extra onions on his burger.

So when Bobby gets a call from Dean Winchester worried as hell about Sam, Bobby doesn't hesitate to tell him that he'll have a bottle of whisky open and waiting for when they arrive.

It used to be that Sam and Dean had their dad watching out for them. That doesn't mean that Bobby didn't worry about them even then because John, well, John wouldn't want to see his sons hurt but he wouldn't let a little thing like either of them leaking blood get between him and the Yellow Eyed Demon either.

But since John died, buying himself a one-way ticket to hell in the process, Bobby's been worrying more frequently. He's not so soft in the head that he hasn't realized the Winchester brothers are hunters and that's a profession which means you shouldn't think too seriously about making any plans for the future. Yet, Bobby has lived to see his own hair turn grey and all he really wants is for the brothers to be around long enough to experience old age for themselves. It's sentimental and sappy and not an emotion Bobby is all that familiar with but he's beared witness to their tough childhoods and the devastating loss after loss after loss. It's Bobby's belief that if anyone deserves a little happiness, it's those boys right there.

XXX

Bobby is more than a little surprised when the Impala pulls to a halt and only Dean exits the car. Bobby leans almost fully into the vehicle, eyes travelling over the empty passenger seat and empty backseat when Dean goes straight to the trunk and pops the lid.

"Jesus Christ, Dean!"

"It's the only way I could get him here Bobby, he's been fighting me like crazy." Bobby doesn't doubt that for a second, Dean's face is scratched up like he'd seriously pissed off an angry bobcat.

Dean reaches into the trunk and tugs gently on the handcuffs around Sam's wrists. He helps Sam climb out and Bobby can see how Sam, with his sweat drenched dark hair plastered to his forehead, is struggling weakly every single second that Dean's hands are touching him.

There are dents and scuff marks on the inside of the trunk lid, no doubt caused by Sam's feet kicking in an attempt to get free. Dean notices the damage, the scratches on his baby's paint work but he closes the trunk without saying a word.

Bobby's eyes settle on Dean, on his pale skin and dark shadowed eyes. "Let's get him inside. You look like you could use a stiff drink."

XXX

Bobby holds out the glass filled with amber liquid and Dean accepts it gratefully. He knocks back the shot and the whisky burns as it slides down his throat, setting his belly on fire. It's a pleasant warmth, comforting, a similar feeling to seeing Bobby again. Maybe it's more about being around someone who actually gives a damn. And Dean knows that these days, those types of people are few and far between.

At any rate, it's impossible to enjoy the drink with Sam sitting only a few feet away, whimpering as he strains against the ropes tying him to a wooden chair by the fire. "He's not possessed, Bobby. He's just—he's just not Sam."

Bobby walks over and crouches down in front of the youngest Winchester, wincing when he notices the angry red welts forming on Sam's wrists from where he's been pulling against the restraints. "You say you found him like this?"

"Yeah, it was weird. I spent a whole week searching without finding a thing and then he was just there, sitting by the side of the road." Dean laughs humourlessly, "at first I thought I was hallucinating." He moves over to stand by Bobby's side, stares down at his brother and lowers his voice to a near whisper. "It's as though they suddenly decided to give him back. The demon that took Sam did something to him, Bobby but I don't know how to undo it."

"Has Sam said anything? Anything at all?"

"Not a word. I think he can understand me...but he won't speak to me."

"The only way we're gonna figure this mess out is if we summon the demon responsible." Bobby concludes as he pushes back his cap and runs a hand across the grooved worry lines creasing his brow.

"How the hell do we do that? I don't know which black-eyed son of a bitch took Sam in the first place." Dean paces angrily, fighting back the urge to lash out and kick over one of the many pillars of books which are stacked in untidy piles around the room.

Yellow Eyes is dead, this shouldn't be happening. Dean made the deal because he wanted his brother alive but in that nightmarish moment out there on the crossroads he didn't consider how dangerous life could be for his brother. Now Sam is sitting right at the top of a demon most wanted hit list and Dean's going to hell, leaving his brother in a matter of months. This isn't what Dean sold his soul for.

"Well, maybe I know someone who might be able to help. Won't be easy getting any answers from him though."

"What? Why?"

"He died two years ago this winter."

XXX

Dean waits for what feels like forever. His one shot of whisky becomes four and the fire in his belly is a furnace by the time Bobby walks back into the room. Dean frowns when he notices that Bobby is sporting a fine shiner on his left eye.

Bobby shakes his head slowly when he sees Dean's concerned expression. "Jacob Carroll." He mutters, as though that should explain everything but Dean's frown only increases because he doesn't recognize the name. "One of the best demon hunters I've ever know." Bobby chuckles then, a low rumble deep in his throat. "He sure hasn't changed any since passing over. Still a real mean old son of a bitch. He wasn't too happy about my getting in touch." Bobby cautiously probes his bruised eye with his finger. "Resting in peace my ass, bastard hit me with the friggin' Ouija board."

Dean sighs, swallows a fifth shot. A dark hopelessness is starting to spread throughout his body, weighing him down, he tilts his head back to drain the last droplets from the glass and hopes the whisky will numb the aching.

"He did know who took Sam though." Bobby adds, his remaining good eye twinkling. "But we'd best get our shit together. If we're going to find out how to summon this demon, there's some heavy duty research with our names on it."

Dean glances over at Sam, asleep now but still tied to the chair which Dean despises—he wants to untie Sam, pick up the chair and smash it into kindling.

It's going to be one long night.

XXX

Dean wakes up some five hours after his head first hit the pillow.

His skull is throbbing with an angry—scratch that—_furious_ headache and he's stretched out fully clothed on a lumpy cot in Bobby's spare bedroom come library.

All of the rooms in Bobby's house seem to double as makeshift studies or libraries. Dean had always found it worthwhile paying Bobby a visit just to see Sam's eye glaze-over with wonder at all the avenues of research possibilities. Books—hundreds over them—more than a book-loving geek like Sam could get through in two lifetimes and some of them incredibly rare too. Dean would use them for research sure, but it also turned out that a pile of Bobby's books made for an awesome foot-rest while watching TV, although Sam would glare daggers at him until Dean became shame-faced enough to take his feet down.

There are soft fingers of sunlight poking through the gap in the thin curtains at the window, lighting up the room with a dull orange glow. Dean turns his head to study the alarm clock, which is sitting on the nightstand by the side of the bed. Thin metal hands pointing to show that it's only just turned six am.

Something sharp is digging into the small of Dean's back, a rusted bedspring no doubt. He sits up, the mattress squeaking as the bed dips and instantly regrets the sudden movement when the room blurs before gradually sharpening back into focus.

Dean is almost tempted to put a hand to his head and check his brain isn't seeping out of his ears. With a pain-filled groan he resolves to try and remember next time that straight whisky combined with utter exhaustion do not a happy Winchester make.

His concern for escaping brain matter dulls into obscurity when his ears suddenly pick up on the sound of yelling coming from downstairs, floating up through the cracks in the floorboards. _Sam_. It's all it takes for Dean to tear out of the bedroom and down the stairs with enough recklessness to seriously risk breaking a leg if he were to trip on one of Bobby's many threadbare rugs.

Bobby has Sam backed into a corner of his cluttered lounge. From his place in the doorway all Dean can see of his brother is Sam's panic-stricken face.

Bobby has his arms held out wide at his sides, the palms of his hands facing towards Sam. "Steady there, son." Bobby mutters quietly, like he's trying to calm a spooked horse. Sam is shaking; badly enough that the ends of the two lengths of rope still bound tightly around his wrists are hanging loose and swinging like twin pendulums.

Seeing Sam afraid ignites the spark of something deep-rooted in Dean's psyche. "Bobby, what the heck?" His tone is sharp with an emotion not that far removed from aggression.

"I was trying to take him for a bathroom break." Bobby hisses through clenched teeth and Dean shifts his position enough to see that Bobby's intentions were well founded. There's a small puddle of piss on the seat of the chair that Sam had been tied to.

"Uh...Oh shit, _shit_." Dean groans and he rubs at his stubbled chin with dismay. "Why the hell did you let me fall asleep? I should have been looking after him."

"Because you damn near collapsed on me, boy, that's why," Bobby fumes, he clearly isn't in a bleeding heart frame of mind right now.

Dean doesn't exactly push Bobby out of the way, but he does put his hand on Bobby's shoulder and slide himself in front of the older man so that he's the one confronting Sam.

Dean crouches down and struggles to keep his game face from slipping when Sam backs away and practically shrinks in on himself.

Dean tries not to look in Sam's eyes. It's like looking into the eyes of a stranger and the obvious distrust and fear are hard to swallow. Sam has never looked at him like that before. Dean has always been Sam's protector, confidant and best friend. To be seen as the enemy by his own flesh and blood, hurts more than Dean would like to admit.

"Sammy, it's me. You remember me, don't you?" Dean asks calmly, not betraying the fact that the possibility of Sam not remembering him is pretty much the worse thing he can imagine.

Sam is not looking at him though; Sam's eyes are transfixed by the amulet around Dean's neck.

It takes a long moment for Dean to realize what Sam is looking at but when he does, he reaches for the cord and slips the amulet off over his head, holding it out towards his brother. "You recognize this? You gave me this, Sammy? Remember?"

Sam sticks out his hand, fingers lightly brushing against the amulet reverently. Dean inches forward and—keeping his movements slow and deliberate—he places the amulet around Sam's neck. Sam instantly puts a hand to it, pressing it against his chest. His shaking has subsided some.

It's not much. But it's a start and right now, Dean will take anything he can get.

XXX

Seated together at the kitchen table Sam drinks from a glass of milk which Dean patiently holds to his brother's mouth. There's a plateful of scrambled eggs, Canadian bacon and biscuits in front of Sam but he won't take a single bite for himself. He'll not eat a morsel unless Dean lifts the fork and forces the food past Sam's lips.

Dean wants to steal a slice of bacon from Sam's plate like old times, when he'd always be sure to eat it with his mouth wide open, mashed up contents on full display, just to make Sam roll his eyes and groan out a disgusted, _"you're such a pig, Dean."_ But Dean holds back because he knows he couldn't cope if all Sam gave him in response was a blank empty stare.

When Sam has drained the glass, Dean lifts it away and gets up to go over and stick it in the sink. He grimaces as he catches sight of the vicious rope burns marring Sam's wrists. "I'm not going to tie you to the chair again, Sammy." Dean says.

Sam's eyes are roaming around the room and Dean puts a hand to Sam's chin, gently redirecting his brother's wandering attention back towards him. "Listen to me. I don't want to tie you up so I want you to promise me you'll not run off anywhere." He leans forward so that his forehead is almost touching Sam's thick dark hair.

Sam blinks at him with wide open eyes and then nods, almost imperceptibly.

Dean releases a sharp breath and smiles widely, encouragingly. "Good. That's good, Sammy." Dean pulls his chair closer. "Can you tell me what happened to you?"

Sam shakes his head then, a few strands of hair fall forward to cover his eyes.

Without thinking, Dean goes to brush the hair away and stops himself when Sam balks and jerks his head out of Dean's reach.

Dean frowns and opens his mouth to speak but closes it again when the kitchen door opens with a bang causing Sam to startle. Bobby shuffles awkwardly into the room, struggling with the small mountain of books he's carrying. Dean pats the back of Sam's hand as he gets up to relieve Bobby of some of his load. "It's Bobby, see? It's just Bobby."

Bobby grabs himself a chair and sits down heavily. "You boys doing okay?" He asks, eyes flicking back and forth between the brothers. Dean looks fatigued even after catching up on some sleep and Sam is clearly still edgy, like he's waiting for something to happen. The rock in Bobby's gut makes him pretty darn certain that if Sam _is_ waiting for something then it's bound to be something bad.

"Yeah, we're—we're okay." Dean pats Sam's hand again, a reassurance for them both.

Bobby flips open the book sitting on the top of the pile and stabs a finger at one of the pages. "When I made contact with Jacob last night he was a little pissy about the Hell Gate being opened so he wasn't exactly forthcoming with information. Seems the demons that escaped have been fighting amongst themselves ever since Yellow Eyes died. One in particular, a dark horse outsider, has been causing more trouble than most. He goes by many names but his followers call him Asag." Bobby pauses then, hesitant about sharing more information in front of Sam when the kid looks fragile enough to break like fine bone china. "Jacob seemed to think Asag might have taken a personal dislike to Sam, seeing as how Yellow Eyes had special plans for him."

It's hard to tell if Sam's even listening. He doesn't show any reaction to Bobby's words. Instead he seems more interested in playing with a thread which is hanging down from the t-shirt he's wearing. He winds the thread around his finger; the end of the finger steadily growing an alarming shade of purple until Dean can't take it anymore and grabs Sam's hand, tugging the thread loose.

"So it was Asag who took Sam?" Dean asks, his stern gaze finally shifting from his brother back to Bobby.

"Seems that way."

"But what for and why would the demon just give him back, Bobby?" _Why not kill him? _

"I don't know. Maybe we should try asking Asag himself."

"You know how to summon him?"

Bobby stabs at the open book again, pointing to an intricate illustration of the 'devil's trap' Dean is already plenty familiar with and underneath that, a long incantation written in Malachim. "I do now but we're going to need some help."

XXX

They take the Impala; it isn't a long drive Bobby says and they can talk more on the way.

Sam is still quiet and withdrawn. Since it looks as though he has finally accepted that neither Dean nor Bobby intend him any harm, he settled himself on the front bench seat without needing to be forcibly persuaded into getting in the vehicle.

He's staring blankly out of the window, one hand clasping the amulet around his neck. The fingers of his other hand are drawing shapes in the condensation on the window-pane.

Dean has been stealing furtive glances at his brother, noting the random patterns Sam has been drawing. Maybe Sam's bored; Dean wishes he knew what was going on inside Sam's head right now. But more than anything he wishes he had Sam back. Talkative, spirited, huge pain-in-the-ass, Sam. His Sam. Not this silent, broken imitation.

As Bobby drives he explains that he has a friend who lives two miles south of Deerfield. A psychic, Bobby adds, saying 'psychic' in the same uneasy way god-fearing folk would blaspheme. According to Bobby the guy is not some spoon bender or crystal-ball gazing nut job but the genuine article, similar to Missouri Mosley.

Dean isn't entirely comfortable with the idea of getting help from a psychic. Missouri he trusts but she earned that trust. She helped him and Sam, helped their dad as well but Dean decides that if this psychic-marvel is good enough for Bobby, then he'll be good enough for him too.

When they pull up outside the small yellow house, Bobby's friend isn't quite what Dean was expecting. Patrick Harper is a forty-something rocker type, who wears leather likes it's the only material available for making clothes. Harper looks like a Black Sabbath roadie, his messy grey hair tied in a tight ponytail and his face half-hidden by a scraggly beard.

Harper's house is packed with odds and ends, countless bizarre trinkets and ornately bound books; it's like a huge emporium of weird. When he leads them inside there's a surf board propped up in the lounge. Dean wants to ask where exactly he surfs seeing as they're a few hundred miles from the nearest stretch of ocean.

Harper pumps Bobby's hand like he's working a casino slot machine and then extends his giant paw in Dean's direction, giving him an over-familiar pat on the shoulder. They exchange apprising looks and Dean feels unnerved by the close scrutiny when Harper squeezes his shoulder and gives him a sad smile. Dean shuffles his feet, not liking the feeling that Harper knows his entire life story already.

"This the kid you called me about, Bobby?" Harper asks, motioning at Sam who has been trailing Dean with all the semblance of a faithful dog sticking to his master's heels.

Dean pulls a cynical 'I thought this guy was meant to be psychic' face.

"Yes." Bobby nods, pointedly ignoring Dean.

Harper reaches out his hand to touch Sam and Dean's back stiffens instantly. He's already moving to put himself in-between the two when Bobby grips his elbow and growls, "this is why we're here, let the man do his job."

Sam doesn't flinch or try to get away, perhaps calmed by Harper's spiritual aura or just too busy staring at the garish pattern on the man's scruffy Hawaiian shirt.

Harper's hand connects with Sam's chest. Dean and Bobby watch intrigued as the fingers on Harper's hand start to twitch. The twitch starts to move up his hand, reaching his wrist and then his whole arm is trembling.

"Harp?" Bobby steps forward, concern etched on his face.

Harper sucks in a shuddering gasp, his eyes roll back and he plummets to the floor like a sack of spuds.

-0-

_Part 2 will be posted soon, it's done it just needs a little tweaking. _

_Reviews will be cuddled, given their own water bowl and taken for regular walks. Yep, I've finally cracked._


	2. Chapter 2

_A big heart-felt thank you to everyone who has taken the time to review, it really is the only thing which keeps me writing some days...that and a strange burning desire to whump Winchesters. _

_Once again this is for the ever wonderful birthday girls Gidgetgal9 and Kokoda2007. Huge thanks to my awesome talented beta Olivia Sutton. __Hugs & cookies to Tammitam and sendintheclowns (who might claim they didn't help much but they really did, they always do and I'm eternally grateful for that and for them). _

_Disclaimer and Summary: As Part 1. I still own nothing though after seeing the Red Bull soapbox vids and pictures, I wish I owned a pair of pretty, shiny Texas boys more than ever. _

**Walking Home A Crooked Mile – Part 2**

Harper opens his eyes to find Dean staring down at him. "Fetch Jack for me?" He grinds the words out and closes his eyes again. His voice is frayed at the edges but not as exhausted as his body feels.

Dean's eyebrows rise in an arch. "Okay sure, I can do that. What's his number?"

"No you idiot, _Jack_." Harper lifts a hand and points at the sideboard behind Dean's head. Dean twists to look and sees a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels sitting there.

"Oh. OH." Dean disappears from Harper's line of vision and quickly reappears brandishing the bottle.

Harper takes it and pulls himself up off the floor staggering over to collapse, splayed out, on his battered cherry-red couch. His eyes quickly find Sam who is sitting in an equally battered armchair, long legs tucked up underneath his body, staring off into space. "Is Sam okay?" He asks shakily.

"Well, he didn't do a nose-dive onto the carpet like you did." Bobby's voice snarks from somewhere in the room.

Harper doesn't have the energy to lift his head and find out where from so he returns to staring at Sam. The kid doesn't appear to have been hurt by the experience; which is a relief because he's clearly been fucked around with quite enough already. Harper kneads his fingers into his tense shoulder-blades, trying to work out the knots in the tight muscles there. The kid's okay—physically, at least—but Harper's whole body hurts like a bitch. He's never been electrocuted before but has a sneaking suspision that the bolt of pain he felt when he tried to connect with Sam must be pretty damn similar.

Out of the corner of his eye Harper can see Dean fidgeting; adjusting the sleeve on his button-down shirt for what must be the tenth time in a row. Dean clearly wants to fire off a round of questions but is giving Harper the time to compose himself; the polite restraint is evidently something of a struggle for him.

Harper takes a long draw from the bottle and then nods his head in Sam's direction. "He's still your brother."

Dean's brow furrows, "I know that."

"Yeah but you've been wondering, haven't you?" Harper watches the young hunter's efforts to maintain a calm demeanour. Dean glances over at Sam and then lowers his head so that he's staring fixedly at the tops of his shoes. "He's in there, he's just buried deep. I couldn't reach him because there's a barrier." Harper continues.

"Barrier?"

Harper grunts and pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "Like the freakin' force-field on the Starship Enterprise. Only I reckon it's not a shield, it's more of a cage."

"I don't understand."

"Sam is under some sort of lock-down. The demon, the one you reckon took your brother; I think he worked some serious mojo as a means to incapacitate him."

"Incapacitate..." Dean echoes softly. The word leaves an instant bitter taste in Dean's mouth and a distinct desire to start making dents in the walls with his fist.

"Can you undo it? Can you make Sam okay again?" Bobby asks bending down to rescue the bottle of whisky from Harper's hands, replacing it with a mug of piping hot coffee. He shoves Harper's feet over and hunkers down, taking a seat on the couch beside him.

"Not without risk, it'd be like walking into a minefield. The barrier could be booby-trapped. Once bitten twice shy, you get what I'm saying?" Harper rubs at his arm as he speaks, the residual tremors caused by the pain he went through are ebbing away now. He only picked up on the presence of a barrier, to actually try and take the damn thing down would be a whole different ball game and one Harper is convinced could turn him into worm food in no time.

"Loud and clear." Dean's stern response is followed up with a frustrated gesture at his brother's oblivious form. "So, what, we just leave him like that? He doesn't even know who I am."

"Oh, he knows." Harper watches as Dean's head snaps back towards him. "Sam's a stronger person than you give him credit for. He wouldn't have let that demon put up the barrier without a fight. Call it sixth sense, call it whatever the heck you like, Sam might not have trusted or understood your bond at first but he realizes that you're his kin. I don't know how to describe it...he's still Sam, he's just not running on a full programme."

"You're making him sound like a freakin' washing machine." It's not the solution Dean has been hoping for, hell, it's not any kind of solution but he feels a tad better in the knowledge that Sam understands and accepts they are brothers.

Sam is the one trapped but for awhile there, it had felt like it was Dean who was lost.

Dean feels more at ease around Harper now too because clearly the psychic hasn't been digging around in his head uninvited. If he had, he'd have known that Dean has never doubted his brother's strength, not once. If anything, Dean has always thought of Sam as the strong one, the one who had carved a place in the world for himself when Dean couldn't.

Bobby looks over at Dean, his expression grim. "If Harp can't help Sam, then we're running out of options here. We may need to summon Asag after all."

"Summon him? You're going to have to destroy that nasty son of a bitch because he's not going to let Sam go free." Harper mutters from his place on the couch, rubbing ruefully at his arm once again.

XXX

Dean strides out angrily, walking the length of the dusty yard behind Harper's house until he reaches the tall wooden fence at the bottom and then he turns to make his way back towards Bobby. "What if Asag tries to hurt Sam, or take him away again? It's too risky. I don't like it."

"Dean, you know Sam better than that. He wouldn't want this. Leaving Sam like he is now would be as good as him being dead."

"Not to me."

"So you're really going to carry on hunting with Sam trailing around after you like—like a damn space cadet? And when you're gone...what's going to happen to the boy then? Isn't it bad enough that you're going to be leaving him and now you're going to leave him stuck like this?"

Dean's face darkens. "Because you're my friend, I'll forget you said that."

Bobby sighs heavily, pushing all the air out of his lungs in one long exhale. He yanks off his trucker's cap, squeezing it to within an inch of its life between his two strong hands. "I—I didn't mean anything by that. I'm just tired, tired of seeing you boys hurting."

Dean turns away, taking a moment to glance towards the porch where Sam is sitting. Except that when Dean looks over, Sam isn't there. The old rickety lawn-chair where Dean had stationed his brother is empty. Dean's head whips back and forth as he quickly checks the surrounding area but Sam isn't anywhere in sight. It's then that a rush of near-hysterical panic hits him like a tidal wave of ice cold water of a scorching hot day. "SAM? SAMMY!? Goddamn it."

"BOBBY! DEAN!" There's a loud bang as the aluminium screen-door entrance to the back of the house crashes open, Harper is stood framed in the doorway shouting for them. "Get your asses in here."

Then run in a mad dash back into the house to find Harper standing in the kitchen full on open-mouthed gawking at Sam who has a large carving knife clasped in his hands—hands which are smeared bright red.

There are several gashes along the length of the top of Sam's forearm, deep and still pumping blood in time with his heartbeat.

"Sammy, give me the knife." Dean holds out his hand, waggles his fingers for added emphasis. "You're freaking me out, dude. Give it to me."

"I've tried asking already, he won't hand it over." Harper scowls. He knows he should be doing something—_aren't you supposed to fetch a first aid kit when a person is bleeding like a stuck pig?_— but he stays rooted to the spot hypnotised by the rivulets of blood snaking down Sam's arm and dripping onto the floor.

Sam's head tips to one side, eyes studying his brother and slowly he holds out the knife, handle pointing towards Dean. Dean takes it and instantly tosses the blade to the other side of the room. He grabs Sam's wrist and half-drags him towards the sink. As he turns on the faucet, he forces Sam's arm under the flow of water and flinches when the blood washes away to reveal the extent of the cuts Sam had been slicing into his arm.

"What the hell were you trying to do, Sam?" Dean grips Sam's shoulder and shakes him roughly. Sam doesn't respond, he simply stares with vacant eyes as his head bobs with the motion. The concern on Dean's face makes him look like he's ready to come apart at the seams. But instead, after a pause, Dean's alarmed expression withdraws and the shutters come down. "He's always been a drama queen." Dean says curtly to Harper and Bobby. "These fuckers are going to need stitching. Come on little brother, I'll get the kit outta the car."

It might seem oddly brusque behavior to someone who doesn't know Dean but Bobby knows exactly what this is, this is Dean's coping mechanism. His way of hiding the pain so that maybe he can convince himself it doesn't really exist.

But when Dean heads for the door—one hand keeping Sam's injured arm elevated—Dean turns back to look at the other two men. "We'll do it, we'll summon Asag," he says and his voice is thick with the fear that his face refuses to convey.

XXX

Bobby is knelt on the floor, copying the outline of a devil's trap onto the hardwood floorboards in thick white chalk. He stands up, dusts off his knees and casts a weary glance around the room. They're as ready for this showdown as they're ever going to be.

Bobby holds the book tightly as he recites the incantation, word for word; his pronunciation is practice perfect. The room quickly fills with plumes of wispy white smoke and the men exchange worried glances—all except for Sam who is leaning against the wall watching, a silent unmoving shadow in the room. The smoke slowly clears to reveal a man standing in the center of the devil's trap. A middle-aged man, dressed in a cheap black suit he looks like a used car salesman. His eyes are a vivid blue but as he blinks his baby blues become ink black.

Dean steps forward, his hipflask filled with holy water ready and waiting in his sweating hands. He unscrews the lid, flicks his wrist and a spray of water hits the demon who hisses his displeasure as the skin on his face sizzles and his flesh starts to smoke.

"What did you do to my brother you bastard?" Dean holds the colt pointed at Asag. Dean's a crack shot even on his worst days and today, his hand is rock steady.

"I gave him back to you when I'd finished with him. You should be grateful I've been that generous." Asag walks a small circle within the confines of the devil's trap. Sizing up in the hunters and their psychic friend he wears a grin as vicious as a shark.

"The only thing that you are is dead, the quicker you realize that the better. Fix my brother or I'll shoot you where you stand, I swear."

"Go right ahead, shoot me, but you'd better get used to your brother living out the rest of his days as a witless retard." Asag's lips quirk in amusement. "Dean, how long after your deal comes due do you honestly think it'll be before little Sammy ends up locked away in an institution."

"Shut up! Just shut up and fix him."

"Did I touch a raw nerve? So sad. He's not quite going to cut it as a demon leader now is he?"

Sam has edged away from the wall, moving forward to stand closer to his brother. He makes a soft mewing noise when Asag twists his head to look at him and Dean immediately reaches back to hook a protective arm around his brother's shoulders.

Asag snorts at the tenderness of the gesture; humans can be so transparently weak sometimes. This isn't what he had planned to do tonight, tonight his plans involved wearing some young girl's intestines like a scarf but seeing as he's here he may as well play. He lowers his head, closes his eyes and starts to mutter under his breath.

Dean shoots a confused glance at Bobby who mouths the word _Meg_ and Dean's instant reaction is to think _oh shit _because it's patently clear Asag knows how to break the devil's trap in the same way Meg had done when she was possessing Sam.

Asag's mutterings end abruptly as he tips back his head and roars. The room shakes, the building foundations groan and a crack wide enough for Dean to fit his fist into splinters across the floor, splitting the devil's trap in two.

Right away Asag raises his hand and the four men fly backward, hitting the wall before falling in a messy heap of tangled limbs. Dean is the first to lift his head when he hears Sam whimper in pain and he crawls the short distance across the floor towards his brother. He looks up to see Asag staring at Sam, fire and fury evident despite his soulless black eyes.

"Stop it." Dean yells at Asag as Sam's face crumbles in agony and his whimpering grows into a disturbing guttural scream, the kind of scream which means you're being ripped apart inside. Sam is curled into a ball, his fingers locked together in his hair. Dean can hear Bobby starting to recite fluent Latin, quietly at first but then his gruff voice begins to grow louder.

But it's not going to be fast enough, not to save Sam.

Dean stands up on unsteady legs, lifts the colt and fires. "I told you to stop it." His words are cold and carved from stone; he's never meant anything more in his entire life.

The bullet hits Asag in the chest. There's a moment where Asag's eyes widen in shock, disbelief radiating from him in undulating waves. His hands claw at the bullet hole in his crisp white shirt even as electricity sparks through his convulsing body in mini lightening rods. Then he collapses to the floor. The demon destroyed, gone, the empty shell body of some poor bastard left behind.

Sam is motionless; lying on his side, unconscious or worse. The colt slips through Dean's fingers and clatters as it hits the ground. He bends down and puts shaking fingers to the carotid in Sam's neck. There's a pulse, beating too rapidly but it's there and Dean sinks to the floor, overwhelmed and exhausted and entirely unable to hold himself up any longer.

Sam's eyelids flutter like butterfly wings and Dean catches a brief glimpse of red in Sam's eyes. All at once Dean feels sick, his brain is screaming "_red eyes" _and all the terrible things those two words mean_. _His legs are jello so he stays slumped over his brother until Sam's eyelids win the battle to open fully and Dean realizes then that only one of Sam's eyes is red. Also, it's not the whole eye, just the white. The sense of utter relief is crushing because one thing Dean's pretty damn certain about is that there's nothing demonic about a burst blood vessel. "Sammy?"

But Sam doesn't answer; all he does is stare up at Dean with lost empty eyes. Sam's not fixed. Dean leans over and surrenders to his body's urge to vomit because he knows now that by killing Asag he's almost certainly doomed his own brother too.

XXX

They salt and burn the body of the possession victim in a shallow grave dug into the soft earth behind Harper's house.

The fire quickly consumes the body and hungry flames lick at the night sky with tender kisses but the fire is far from beautiful. Harper stands by the edge of the unmarked grave and says a prayer, one Dean recognizes and starts to repeat quietly to himself but the words feel stale and meaningless as they leave his lips. He settles for a mumbled "I'm sorry" instead and stumbles back into the house to resume his post by the side of his sleeping brother.

The atmosphere is suffocatingly tense with weariness and defeat. Not wanting to impose on Harper's hospitality any longer, both hunters make the decision to leave and head back to Bobby's. Sam sleeps in the car and when they arrive at Bobby's place, Dean leads his brother inside and watches as Sam settles almost instantly back into sleep, laid out on Bobby's couch.

Dean takes a seat on the edge of the couch close to his brother's head, as close as he can get without actually sitting on his brother's head, and feels the worn-out cushions sag with his weight. Sam's eyes are moving underneath their lids. He wonders if Sam is dreaming and what he dreams about with the way he is now. _The way he'll always be_.

Less than half an hour passes before Sam starts to wake up. Dean can't help but hold his breath, his chest tightens with the hope that in the brief moment when Sam first blinks awake maybe, just maybe, he'll miraculously be himself again. Sam's bleary half-lidded eyes focus on Dean for a heartbeat and then drift away towards the wall.

Dean runs a hand through Sam's mussed hair before reaching into his pocket. He pulls out a candy bar and rips off the wrapper. Dean holds it out and Sam's eyes shift towards the bar like the chocolate is some kind of magnet. Sam reaches up to take it and he's smiling as he takes a bite but it's an unconscious reaction, a physical response to the simple pleasure of eating something which tastes good and sweet. There's no real communication expressed in that smile and Dean's heart goes cold at the realization of it.

While Sam eats Dean checks the bandage on his brother's arm. Blood is seeping through in places; he probably ripped open some stitches when Asag was playing human skittles. Dean curses and starts to unwind the bandage, revealing the wounds and then he stops...unravelled bloodied bandaged coiled in a messy heap on his lap. The cuts on Sam's arm, there's something about them that Dean hadn't noticed before.

XXX

"Bobby, these shapes mean anything to you?" Dean holds up a sketchpad and waves it emphatically.

"Can't say that they do, son." Bobby mutters pausing to glance over Dean's shoulder at the hastily done drawings.

"Sam drew them before, on the drive to Harper's and they are the same shapes he sliced into his arm with the knife. Do you think…" Dean pauses; insatiable hope bubbling in his chest making him want to pump his fist into the air above his head. "Do you think he's trying to tell us something?"

"Say what now?" Bobby says with a frown which makes him look far from convinced.

"Well, are we going to do something or just sit around on our pretty asses?" Dean grouses, standing up.

"Kid, are you sure you're not just seeing something that you want to see? I mean, they look like shapes sure but you heard what Harper said about Sam's state of mind."

"I know my brother and I know he's trying to tell us something."

"Give me the pad." Bobby makes a grab for the sketch pad, shoving it under his arm and with a disconcerted longsuffering look on his face he disappears abruptly from the room.

XXX

"Well, I'll be God-damned." Bobby's voice announces his arrival even before his physical presence does. "You were right about those shapes, they do mean something."

Dean's eyes immediately zoom in on the rapidly deepening purple bruise on Bobby's cheek. "You've contacted Jacob again, haven't you? That Casper the demon hunter friend of yours?"

"Friend is a mighty strong word but you're right I have been speaking with him. It just so happens that Jacob hates demons more than the pair of dimwit hunters who let the Hell Gate be opened."

Bobby lifts up his hands in a placating gesture when he notices Dean's riled expression. "Hey, his words not mine." Bobby slams the pad back down on the table. "Anyway, these shapes are Trabodian symbols, serious dark magic but then sometimes, you need to use darkness to fight darkness."

"We can use them to fix Sam?"

"I don't know how Sam knew about them, heck I've never seen em' before but it's got to be worth a shot."

Dean grins, Winchesters aren't exactly newcomers to facing near-hopeless odds. Winchesters don't get lucky, unless of course the circumstances involve a smoky bar, boobs and bottle-blonde hair.

XXX

Bobby follows the instructions given to him by Jacob and lights two red candles which he places next to a bowl filled with a mixture of potent herbs. The herbs smell so foul that Dean ties a bandana around the lower half of his face and scowls at the bowl while Bobby continues to add pinches of meticulously measured out ingredients into it.

The symbols are drawn on the palms of Sam's hands and the soles of his feet. He's compliant enough providing only Dean touches him...and the fact he's distracted with munching on a Hershey's 'Cookies 'N' Crème' bar, well, that helps too.

When Bobby completes the short ritual, they wait, drawing short nervous breaths and then Sam drops his candy bar mid-bite, looks straight at his brother and whispers, "Dean."

It's one word but one which speaks volumes and always has done.

XXX

Sam doesn't remember anything—or at least that's what he says but the not-smile Dean gives him proves that Dean thinks he's lying and if Sam's honest with himself he does remember, some of it at least. Not the missing week no, not that, the memories of that time are gone. They either died with Asag or have been buried away somewhere deep inside his head. But what Sam does remember is the brief time he spent aimlessly wandering alone and confused, before Dean found him by the road side.

Sam's been possessed before, knows exactly what that powerless disconnected feeling is like but this wasn't like that at all. This was like being pumped full of morphine or getting completely trashed on cheap tequila or the feeling you get first thing in a morning when you wake up from a deep deep sleep—that haze which permeates your body, making your head heavy and your thought process as slow as if your brain were filled with nothing but a thick, gloopy syrup.

Being saved was like being dragged back into the land of the living. Dean was first clear thought in Sam's head and Dean's face was the first face which swam into sharp focus, as the veil of fog lifted.

They tell Sam he gave them the key, that it was him who solved the puzzle and found a way to save himself. Dean prodded his arm with a finger and grunted something about demons being unable to remove something as deeply embedded as Sam's research geek superpowers. But when Sam sees the symbols, fading marks on his own skin, he doesn't recognise them.

Sam is always full of questions. Always needing things to make sense in his head, as though facts are the only solid things he has to hold on to, the only things which keep him grounded sometimes. But this time, questions seem unnecessary.

He's home. Nothing about that is unclear to him.

XXX

Bobby can't convince the brothers to stay, not even for a bite of supper. Dean is already painfully aware of how much he has been leaning on Bobby lately. Bobby's house has practically been Dean's 'Operation Find Sammy' base-camp ever since this whole nightmare began.

Sam gushes his thanks for the offer but the way he's just about as fidgety as Dean has ever seen him is evidence enough that he's itching to hit the road.

A warm goodbye—warm by hunters' standards—is exchanged in the form on rough pats on the back and mumbled parting words, which veer dangerously close to expressions of fondness.

Once they are back in the Impala the brothers' drive for awhile in silence, no real destination in mind just the lure of the open road for now. So Dean almost runs the car off the road when Sam's soft voice speaks for the first time in two hours. "You know what Meg used to like to do?"

Dean knows exactly what Sam is talking about right away; the joy-ride Meg took Sam's body for when she possessed him in West Texas. Dean doesn't know a great deal about Sam's experiences during that time, he remembers more about what he himself had been feeling. The overpowering flood of fear for Sam. Always for Sam. Not even when Dean had been shot or when Sam's fist was pounding his face into mince, the only thing running through Dean's brain was saving his brother. Dean shakes his head stiffly, feels himself growing tense.

"Sometimes, when she must have been bored alone at night in a motel room, no-one else around to torture, I guess..." Sam begins, eyes misting slightly. "She'd hold her breath. She'd lie down on the bed, not breathing and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it. I could feel my lungs burn but I couldn't move my own body, couldn't open my mouth and take a breath. She'd hold out until the room would go dim around the edges and then she'd breathe again. _I want you to remember who's in charge, Sammy._ That's what she said to me."

"Jesus." Dean is only vaguely aware that's he's balling his hand into a fist. It's old rage now but it has left scars nonetheless and not the ones caused by a bullet or a red hot poker either. Dean's powerless to do a thing about Meg but the anger still howls through his brain like a thunderstorm.

"I can't do it again. Let a demon control me. Be controlled. I can't..."

"Sam. It won't happen again. I won't let it."

"What about when you're not here, Dean?"

Dean runs his tongue over his lips; his mouth feels as dry as desert sand. "It won't happen again." Dean repeats, more firmly this time and prays to God Sam believes it. Nothing else matters, he just needs Sam to believe it.

"Sometimes I don't know who I am anymore, Dean."

Dean closes his eyes, opens then a beat later. "You're Sam Winchester...You like beef and tomato on rye with absolutely no relish. You were addicted to gummi bears when you were in the first grade and sometimes you wouldn't go to school unless I promised to make you gummi bear sandwiches for your lunch. You love black comedies especially ones with John Cusack. You drink foo foo coffees but hate that iced frappe coffee crap and you have a way with people, making people you've never met before, trust you. Which I happen to think is just plain weird and..." Dean stops talking, chews hard at his bottom lip. "You're my brother."

The corners of Sam's mouth twitch and they both shift in their seats uncomfortably as the moment passes. It's the Winchester way they know so well. Their cycle of angst; they brood, they deal, they move on.

"My brother—who is also still wearing my jewellery, by the way." Dean adds pursing his lips.

Sam rubs his fingers against the amulet hanging around his neck. It had been one of the only things to reach him when he was trapped, one of the few things which somehow made him feel safe, protected. "You want it back? I thought you'd given it to me." Sam asks seriously and then turns his face away towards the window so Dean can't see the smile playing on his lips.

"I..."

"Relax, I'm kidding. You know you can pull off the Mr. T look better than me anyway." Sam slips off the amulet and holds it out.

"Dude, you did not just compare me to Mr. T? Screw that, I don't wear _that_ much jewellery." Dean grunts, feigning annoyance as he pulls the cord over his head and the amulet falls back against his chest. _Where it belongs_, Sam observes.

"I ain't going on no plane." Sam mutters under his breath with a barely concealed chuckle.

"Quit it bitch, or I'll make you into a fool worth pitying."

Sam sniggers loudly as he reaches over to flick on the stereo and Dean warms instantly at the familiar sound of his brother's laugh. Dean puts his foot down on the gas and AC/DC fills the car as they peel down the highway at a speed Bobby would give them his best 'Bobby glower' for.

It feels good. It feels like being home again. Dean's grin spreads to fill his face as he drives because this, this is a dance he knows the steps to. With Sam beside him and the world flashing by the window, he can let himself believe that nothing can touch them. Dean could dance to this tune forever.

Or for his last few months at least.

-**end**-

_A/N - When I first wrote this I fully intended it to be a 2-part story but now I feel like it needs an epilogue of sorts - something to fill in the gap of Sam's missing week and explain what happened to him and the nightmare Dean went though. I don't have anything written yet so I'll close this story for now but...there may well be more. _


End file.
